The waiting was agony.
Charged emotions permeated the air like a fog. Fear, pride, anxiety, anger, and even excitement amalgamated together in Pearl Lane. Everyone who resided in that slum knew that something was coming, but only some knew exactly what that something was. The streets were too quiet--the prevalent bandit gangs had begun to clear off of the streets for the day, and naught but beggars, peddlers, and the occasional Brass Blade patrol wandering through made their presence known. The sun shone brilliantly as it passed its zenith, casting menacing shadows across the pavement as men and women alike began to filter inside the once-abandoned buildings.
The safe house, too, was devoid of conversation, but it was not empty, nor was it silent. Guns were loaded, swords sharpened, heads counted. There was a Highlander sitting on an intimidating rectangular structure inside the safe house, wordlessly cleaning a wicked, serrated falchion. He was dressed in naught but sack cloth trousers and boots, his bronze chest was thick and marked with scars. He'd shaven his ash-blonde beard, and his unkempt hair still sported the blood red highlights that marked who he was, and in his eyes a sharp clarity, tempered by withheld rage. This is the man who would change everything.
He raised his head. After a quick check, everyone would be sent back out to the streets again to maintain the illusion of normalcy. It was gratifying to see that many of the faces he saw he recognised as former enemies--gangsters, bandits, crooks of all sorts, coerced or persuaded into joining under his banner. Miqo'te, Ala Mhigans, the Hellsguard brothers who'd stood by him...he could see the looks on their faces: apprehension, terror, and disquiet, but also hope, eagerness, and determination. Some of them knew what their actions meant for this city. Some didn't care.
It would only be a few more suns. A few more suns, just enough time for the Blades to be distracted and the Sworn to be absent. Scythe didn't trust the pirate as far as he could throw him, but at this point, it didn't matter. The people of Ul'dah were given the tools, and they would make good use of them, and to rush a plan such as this was to invite certain destruction.
The Highlander raised his head. An affirmative, indistinct shout was heard, and gradually the bandits began to filter back into the streets. The safe house was again quiet save for the shnk of an oil stone running across the edge of a blade.
Just a few more suns.
Charged emotions permeated the air like a fog. Fear, pride, anxiety, anger, and even excitement amalgamated together in Pearl Lane. Everyone who resided in that slum knew that something was coming, but only some knew exactly what that something was. The streets were too quiet--the prevalent bandit gangs had begun to clear off of the streets for the day, and naught but beggars, peddlers, and the occasional Brass Blade patrol wandering through made their presence known. The sun shone brilliantly as it passed its zenith, casting menacing shadows across the pavement as men and women alike began to filter inside the once-abandoned buildings.
The safe house, too, was devoid of conversation, but it was not empty, nor was it silent. Guns were loaded, swords sharpened, heads counted. There was a Highlander sitting on an intimidating rectangular structure inside the safe house, wordlessly cleaning a wicked, serrated falchion. He was dressed in naught but sack cloth trousers and boots, his bronze chest was thick and marked with scars. He'd shaven his ash-blonde beard, and his unkempt hair still sported the blood red highlights that marked who he was, and in his eyes a sharp clarity, tempered by withheld rage. This is the man who would change everything.
He raised his head. After a quick check, everyone would be sent back out to the streets again to maintain the illusion of normalcy. It was gratifying to see that many of the faces he saw he recognised as former enemies--gangsters, bandits, crooks of all sorts, coerced or persuaded into joining under his banner. Miqo'te, Ala Mhigans, the Hellsguard brothers who'd stood by him...he could see the looks on their faces: apprehension, terror, and disquiet, but also hope, eagerness, and determination. Some of them knew what their actions meant for this city. Some didn't care.
It would only be a few more suns. A few more suns, just enough time for the Blades to be distracted and the Sworn to be absent. Scythe didn't trust the pirate as far as he could throw him, but at this point, it didn't matter. The people of Ul'dah were given the tools, and they would make good use of them, and to rush a plan such as this was to invite certain destruction.
The Highlander raised his head. An affirmative, indistinct shout was heard, and gradually the bandits began to filter back into the streets. The safe house was again quiet save for the shnk of an oil stone running across the edge of a blade.
Just a few more suns.
